Colateral Damage
by Noriko Sakuma
Summary: Reminiscing of their encounters. Mukuro thought being a 'natural born assassin' was interesting enough to deserve his attention. And he couldn't let all that potential to waste, could he? Some violence. Yamamoto/Mukuro


* * *

"Hello, Yamamoto Takeshi."

"Ah, um. Hi."

Yamamoto looked up to the boy who had just appeared sitting cross-legged on the yard, smiling mysteriously. He just greeted him as cheerfully as he did anyone else.

"You're Mukuro, right?"

"Ah, so you know me."

"Ahaha, yep." He put down his baseball equipment as he approached the other boy to be able to talk to him more properly. "I've only seen you once before, but I think anyone could easily recognize you with that hair style, ahaha!"

Mukuro's smile did not falter, though he might have shown a hint of amused surprise on his features for a brief moment.

"Are you looking for Tsuna?"

Nothing in Yamamoto's voice or expression had changed, but Mukuro could tell there was a hint of wariness to the question.

"No."

He pressed his chin on the palm of his hand, looking at the other boy intensely.

"I just came here to meet the natural born assassin the Arcobaleno managed to find. It simply caught my curiosity."

"Oh, ah," Yamamoto grinned, so obviously oblivious to anything regarding the subject. His wariness was gone for the moment.

"Have you found them yet?"

"Kufufu, I'm _looking_ at him."

* * *

Yamamoto had gotten used to Mukuro's presence rather quickly. Unlike anyone else who might have felt uneasy, wary, alert or even scared to have the Italian teenager appear at the most unexpected times and unorthodox places, the baseball player remained perpetually cheerful, friendly and even eager to interact with him.

"Ahaha, how do you do that?"

Mukuro had chosen to ignore the question after the third time he had heard it. He was already done explaining, honestly—and he wasn't even sure the other boy actually _understood_ a thing about the nature of his powers. However, after the eleventh time he started getting a little irritated.

"Why do you keep on asking that?"

Yamamoto shrugged, an idiotic grin plastered all over his face.

"Wanna hang out?"

"What makes you think I would like to?"

"Well, you always pop up out of nowhere to talk to me," Yamamoto explained, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, "So I figured you wanted something, and since you always look bored, I thought maybe you'll get to have more fun hanging out or doing something."

Mukuro's first thought was that Yamamoto's logic was simple-minded and naive; however, there was an almost imperceptible glint in the other boy's eye that made him change his mind in a second—though it was always useless to try to find it again when he tried. Everytime he thought he had him figured it out, something would happen that disrupted his elaborate theories.

His curiosity was being tainted in a very successful way.

* * *

To the foreign eye, the scenario could be interpreted as anything but training. Every single attack, and movement was performed with cold precision, aiming to kill without doubt.

At least from one of the adversaries.

"What's wrong Yamamoto Takeshi? If you don't take this seriously you'll just get yourself killed."

Focusing his strength in a single point, he pushed the other boy away from him a few meters with a defensive movement. Mukuro's power was _overwhelming_; Yamamoto could barely manage to defend himself properly. He had already gotten some nasty bruises all over his body.

"A-ahaha, I don't want to kill you, Mukuro."

"And what if _I_ want to kill _you_?"

Yamamoto looked serious for a split second.

"You don't."

Mukuro's smirk was twisted then, his red eye glowing maliciously in the barely illuminated room.

One moment he was safe, and the next all Yamamoto could think of was the searing pain shooting through his body, starting from his abdomen. Mukuro's hand didn't budge and inch as he pressed his trident firmly in place, his fingertips soaked with blood.

"A single mistake and you're dead, Yamamoto Takeshi."

Later, he would realize that he had been stabbed in a specific place to avoid harming any vital organs.

* * *

First mission.

He was there, at the alley. He was only supposed to talk to them and watch his own back. They weren't bad, just confused; Tsuna was sure of it. Even though they had attempted infiltration and did quite a job on conspiracy, he still seemed eager to get any sort of agreement from them.

Instead, he had only found a pile of corpses laid out on the pavement, with a young man standing in the middle of the picture, blood dripping from his weapon as he laughed.

_Kufufufufu~_

"Mukuro..?"

"Hello, Yamamoto Takeshi."

"Why did you--?"

"Kill them? They were working for me. Terrible work, I must add… And I am not a customer who tolerates sloppy jobs." His smirk twisted with that maniacal gleam on his eyes as he walked closer. He didn't seem bothered by the fact that his clothes were covered in blood.

"Care to join me for a drink?"

* * *

Mukuro barely ever questioned his growing interest in the Rain Guardian. Maybe he had, in the beginning, but his curiosity had been quickly quelled by the growing potential on the other boy. It intrigued him; his instinct, his reflexes, his skill. The Arcobaleno had certainly made quite the discovery.

And it was being spoiled.

Tsunayoshi couldn't possibly exploit all his potential properly, with his foolish beliefs mellowing his character. In that scenario he wouldn't become the assassin he was _born_ to be.

Unfortunately he hadn't met him at the right time, or at the right situation. Mukuro was convinced, however, that he could still give him a push in the right direction; there was still so much he could achieve with the proper stimulation, however subtle it might be. It was a self imposed challenge which he found greatly amusing.

He couldn't let it all go to waste.

* * *

The first time he killed a person hadn't been premeditated, but it definitely couldn't have counted as 'accidental'.

It had been on another mission, nothing too dangerous, and he had kept his movements accurate. One small mistake had been enough to make the entire situation get out of control.

Tsuna had always insisted on keeping unnecessary deaths to a minimum, even those of enemies, and Yamamoto had always tried to oblige, to take as much pressure as he could off his "boss's" shoulders. This situation had been like that, too; his opponent had feigned surrender, throwing away his sword, and in the blink of an eye he had attacked again, making him lose his grip on the sword.

He didn't have many options left; just a sudden opportunity, an opening on the other guy's defense that had given him the perfect chance to aim for one clean cut.

Too bad it had been on a vital organ.

A violent welcoming from the little guy, several worried words from Tsuna, a mouthful of insults from Gokudera and a somewhat harsh cleaning of his injuries later, all he could think of were Mukuro's words. He couldn't help but laugh a little bitterly, then.

_'Trying to build an empire without wanting to kill anyone that might get in the way is nothing but foolishness.'_

_'Tsuna just wants the best for everyone.'_

_'An Utopia. That's far more impossible to achieve. You have to kill; it's in your nature. No matter how evolved humans might seem, they always go back to their roots. For survival, boredom, pleasure… take your pick.'_

* * *

"I know _they_ weren't working for you."

"Beg your pardon?"

"Them. On the Alley."

"And that's relevant because…?"

"Why did you kill them?"

"What should the end of some meaningless existences matter to you?"

Silence.

A pause.

A sigh.

"They just weren't fit to be your first assassination," he said simply, the words lazily leaving his lips, "They wouldn't have been able to _taint_ you enough. Simply useless."

* * *

He loved the smell of the grass and the leather of the new equipment, the sound of the people cheering on the bleachers, the feel of the sun on his face and the gusts of wind playing with his hair and clothes.

There was no other place where Yamamoto could feel happier. And why would there be? Being in the Major Leagues was his most cherished dream since he was a child.

He arranged his cap and punched his mitt as he waited for the ball. Next inning he'd be at the bat. Right now, the right outfield was his. Two outs, men on second and first base, zero strikes. His team was ahead by two runs and only two innings were left.

This was getting interesting.

"Having fun?"

A young man stood before him, seemingly having just appeared out of thin air. He was not wearing a uniform nor did he look like a conventional fanatic; he was, at first glance, out of place in the picture, but something still made him seem like a logical part of it.

Those weren't the kind of things Yamamoto thought too much about, anyway. He just smiled, standing still in his place.

"A lot."

"I'm glad."

A swing on the batter's box. First strike.

"I had the feeling you'd enjoy this. It's what you want, isn't it?"

"It's nice. It's where I've always wanted to be."

"Wouldn't you want to stay here _forever_?"

Second strike. Yamamoto never stopped smiling.

"I can't. You know that."

Mukuro smiled back.

"But it's good to escape from reality from time to time."

A foul . A large pause, then,

"You can't always escape."

Homerun, three more innings for the rival team, the crowd roared—some with enthusiasm, some with discontent. Mukuro remained still as Yamamoto lifted his cap slowly.

"Took you long enough to realize that."

And suddenly, everything was gone. It all disappeared in a thin mist before Yamamoto found himself back on his half-lighted room at the underground base.

* * *

You couldn't consider their interaction as dating. Not quite. Not really. At least that was what Mukuro would say if you asked. And _if_ he even allowed you to get that far without stabbing you into the nearest wall—well, being bored was a really bad thing.

To put it simply, it had been one of those situations in which two people are in the same place at the same time, then one thing leads to another and another, with a bed that just happens to be there. Really.

The fact that Mukuro found him tolerable and interesting (and maybe even _pleasant_), might have been of importance as well. But those were just minor details, honestly.

Just a coincidental situation that had happened a remarkable amount of times. Nothing more.

Mukuro stretched lazily, resting his head on Yamamoto's abdomen. His long hair was in a slight disarray, tinting the mattress and pale flesh with a dark indigo.

"Would you cry if I died?"

Yamamoto had already gotten used to Mukuro's sudden questions or comments long before he had given up on trying to figure out every reason or meaning behind them. This one, however, managed to surprise him a little.

"Ahahah, why do you ask that?"

Mukuro shrugged.

"Perhaps I'm just curious."

Yamamoto seemed to think about it for a moment before picking his reply.

"Dunno, would _you_ cry for me if I died?"

He turned his face just enough to get him on his visual line, the smirk never leaving his face.

"No."

A cheerful laugh.

"I knew you'd say that."

"You didn't answer my question."

And he never quite did, not in a way anyone would expect. But for the Italian, his laugh was eloquent enough.

* * *

Weapons clashed as two different fighting styles met.

"What's the matter? You seem _a little_ tense, Takeshi-kun."

It was nothing like the first times they had done this. Yamamoto had grown formidably, perfecting his style in a satisfying manner.

"You think? I'm the just the same as always."

"Oya, are you?" Mukuro's face was slightly deformed as the number five claimed his right eye, but his smirk still remained.

"I'm sure I can point out a few reasons why you wouldn't be. News travel fast, especially _bad ones_."

Yamamoto tried to keep focused on the battle.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Mukuro nearly laughed.

"Then I guess the _recent events_ simply lack importance in your eyes. Who would have thought that you wouldn't care about your--"

He didn't notice the exact moment in which Yamamoto had started moving _so fast_. He couldn't react swiftly enough to avoid him, and his trident was taken off his hands as Yamamoto threw him violently against a wall. A dangerously sharp blade pressed against his neck.

Neither of them moved after that, nor spoke. Time seemed to have stopped for a minute before Yamamoto took a step back, looking slightly disturbed.

"I don't want to kill you."

It wasn't clear to whom he was telling that. Mukuro smirked then, his surprise gone as he leaned against the other boy, deliberately pressing the skin of his neck back to the sword as he whispered into his ear.

"But for a moment, _you did_."

* * *

The only time he killed for revenge (or the closest thing to it) was during a mission in Italy.

His goal was to retrieve important documents, stolen from the Vongola Mansion during the time in which they had started moving to the underground base. It wasn't too difficult a task; a no-name gang, which occupation was to make jobs for more powerful families, was responsible for it, and, according to their sources, they were still negotiating with other mafia families to sell the documents to the highest bidder. With his trained team under his command it wasn't long before they took over the place.

Several injured but nothing lethal. Zero deceased.

"Ahaha, well, we better take those documents back to Tsuna."

"Understood, Yamamoto-san."

"What, aren't you going to kill us? What kind of lame assassin are you?"

Yamamoto was never intimidated by that kind of speech, and his omnipresent smile remained in place.

"Assassin? Ahahah, I'm sorry but I'm not an assassin. Just try to stay calm until this whole thing is over, please."

"Tch," the goon had a perverse smirk on his face, never taking his eyes off him.

"Yamamoto Takeshi, Vongola's Rain Guardian, what a big douche," he laughed, his voice chilly and cruel.

"Guess that's one thing you learned well from your father, but you should have seen him begging pathetically for his life, and just _how_ much blood there was—"

He didn't notice when his hand moved to grip the handle of his sword, or when his arm moved to slice open the guy's throat, neither did he feel the first stream of blood spraying all over his suit. A bad cut-- he always tried to avoid those; blood on your clothes was a difficult and nasty thing to clean up.

Maybe if it hadn't all been so fresh on his mind he would have managed to control himself. In all honesty, though, he had been a little too tense as of late.

_'… natural born assassin…'_

_'… killing for many reasons, vengeance leaves a particularly nice aftertaste, almost delightful and addictive… '_

_'…. I would love to be there the first time you experiment it…'_

He only blinked.

"… Yamamoto-san?"

When he turned around, he had his trademark smile back on his face.

"Are we ready yet?"

Mukuro was wrong. There was nothing left but bitterness.

Several injured. One deceased.

* * *

Maybe. Maybe, he felt, he had been spending a little too much time with Mukuro.

He found himself thinking in ways he wouldn't have years, or even _months_ before. He was surprised when _too_ cold decisions or responses would be the first to come to his mind, not even doubting for a moment whether they were completely wrong or not. If it felt like something Mukuro would think or say, his head was like a resonator for those thoughts. He wasn't entirely sure if it was just the Italian messing with his head. It almost felt like an infection.

But he also thought of it as a good thing.

Because if that happened to him, that meant that at least a little bit of him was rubbing off on Mukuro, too.

* * *

No response.

No response.

He remembered the last time he had seen him, their plans to break him out from where his body was imprisoned. What could possibly go wrong? He was considerably stronger than before, and he had already managed to escape successfully once.

No response.

They always said bad news traveled too fast, but he had never bothered paying too much attention, not if they were just assumptions. The guy was just bragging too much; that couldn't be considered a reliable source by any means.

But according to _them_, even if the body was still intact, they did register a sudden and considerable downgrade on his vital signs, keeping it functioning for their own sadistic reasons.

And two years now seemed like a _long_ time.

No response.

Dokuro was nowhere to be found, either. Not even Hibari, who had always tried to keep a close tag on her -- much to Mukuro's displeasure, though only a couple of people knew about this--, could track her. The Cloud Guardian had already expressed his discontent by destroying a handful of expensive equipment, as well as injuring any of the underlings who had the misfortune to pass near him.

No response.

And he could only laugh.


End file.
